


Taking Flight

by Aqua1999



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Connor Deserves Happiness, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hank is best dad, Hurt/Comfort, Not Beta Read, Winged Connor, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-22
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-05-26 23:20:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15011609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aqua1999/pseuds/Aqua1999
Summary: In a world where wings are an extension of your soul, Androids can't fly.





	1. Chapter 1

-

Androids can't fly.

It’s just one of those things that everyone knows and nobody questions.

They have wings of course - Cyberlife had to make sure they looked human- but the feathers are always a striking white colour. With a truly meagre wingspan just barely reaching 4 ft from tip to tip. Cyberlife, of course, argued that flight just wasn’t necessary. They already had delivery drones and abundant public transport so why waste resources on functional wings? Over time, the white motionless feathers became just another Android quirk, another in the long list of things to separate them from humanity.

For humans, it’s another matter entirely. Wings are an extension of the soul, often matching their owners natural hair colour and fading to grey with age. They’re as alive as the person who owns them, constantly moving and twitching with otherwise unknown emotions. Flight is instinct, as easy as breathing and just as effortless. 

Which is why, when Connor strides into the bar searching for one Lieutenant Anderson, no one ever thinks to question it.

“Lieutenant Anderson? My name is Connor, I’m the android sent by Cyberlife-”

Hank tenses, because of course they’d assign him an Android. It’s not like he’s the only detective on the team who actively despises the things. Oh wait... he is.

The thing - Connor - his brain helpfully supplies, carries on talking, oblivious to Hanks rising temper. 

“-I was lucky to find you at the 5th bar.” And Hank can practically hear the thing tilt its head, and it is definitely an it, no matter what anyone else says. So of course his only logical response is to ignore it entirely. He stares stubbornly at his drink and lets the silence hang heavy in the air like a barricade. The deterrent doesn’t work of course, and he doesn’t know why he expected it to.

“Lieutenant Anderson?” It’s voice is firm and expectant and Hank fully intends to avoid the thing forever until a soft hand taps his shoulder. 

Irritation burns into rage in a split-second and he twists to glare at the intruder. Insults already sharp and barbed at the tip of his tongue, which is why he only has a brief second to think - Well that’s not normal- before he stops short and freezes. 

The android in front of him is nothing like any he’s seen before. If not for the obnoxious glowing blue LEDS, Hank would almost say the thing was human. For starters, Connor’s wings could only be described as gargantuan - and they definitely weren’t the classic android white. Towering sleek black feathers arched high over it’s shoulders, immaculately pruned with glowing blue tips that just barely grazed the floor. They were held tight and frozen at its back, motionless in a way that only an Androids can be.

Hank blinks, rage temporarily forgotten. Great, well this is just fantastic. Of course they’d pair him with a goddam peacock. He glances back at his own mass of tangled grey feathers and can’t help but feel just a little inadequate.

The silence becomes oppressive and when he looks up, he realises that Connor is still waiting for an answer. Golden brown eyes wide and mimicking concern. It’s disconcerting enough that he shrugs it’s hand off his shoulder with a quick jerk and collects himself enough to respond.

“Oh Piss off ya’ glorified Chicken. I don’t need any assistance and especially not from a plastic prick like you, so why don’t you just be a good little robot and get the fuck outta here,” he bites out rather inelegantly. Not his proudest moment that’s for sure but if anyone asks, he’ll blame it on the alcohol. 

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant, but I must insist, my instructions stipulate that-”

“You know where you can shove your instructions?” Hank snorts.

“No. Where?” It asks and sounds so infuriatingly innocent that Hank just barely holds back a scream. Frustration ruffles through his feathers as he takes a deep breath and glares.

“Never mind,” He sighs and turns back to his drink, hoping that it’ll take the hint already and leave.

“You know what? I’ll buy you another one for the road. What do you you say?” 

That grabs his attention and he startles, considers his options and decides - fuck it - might as well get it over with. He accepts the drink, downs it in one and stands.

“Alright then, let’s get this shit show over with,” He shakes out his neglected wings, spares the Android no more than a passing glance and leaves the bar. The rain soaks his feathers almost instantly and he shakes them a little as he climbs into the car. Hank doesn’t even need to check to know that Connor is climbing into the other side, wings tucked impossibly tighter at his back and seeming completely unaffected by the rain.

Hank breathes a long suffering sigh and turns the key. It’s going to be a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Righto, so I haven't written anything in a long time but I love this fandom and I needed a Wingfic. I don't know if I'll be including any ships or just how long this will be. Ratings and tags will probably change as I go along. Not beta read so all mistakes are my own.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank is not bonding with Connor.

They’ve been driving for several minutes before Hank notices that Connor is fidgeting. Large, raven-black wings twitching ever so slightly as he shifts in apparent discomfort on the seat. The motion so inherently human that, for a moment, Hank finds himself at a loss for words.

“For fucks sake Connor, sit still!” He eventually scolds.

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant. It was not my intention to annoy you,” Connor says but he continues to fidget anyway, lips pulled down in a slight frown. Hank is strongly contemplating the merits of shoving an Android out of a moving car, until he looks over and realises what the problem is.

“Ah shit, look. There’s a button there on the side of the seat, so just press the fucking thing,” and it’s not guilt that makes him say it, not at all. He just wants Connor to stop moving and leave him in peace.

The android drops a hand to the aforementioned button, and tentatively presses down. Almost instantly, the back of the seat slots itself into a rounded ‘I’ shape, perfect for larger wings to curl up comfortably behind the seat. He blinks at it for a second and then carefully leans back, unfurling his massive wings enough to hook them around the back.

“Thank you, Lieutenant. This is much more adequate,” he declares and the fidgeting mercifully stops.

“Yeah, yeah don’t mention it,” he grumbles and before anything more can be said he turns on the radio. A universally accepted signal for quiet. The rest of the trip is blissfully uneventful, the music of Knights of the Black Death a familiar comfort to his disrupted routine. Hank pointedly doesn’t think about the gratitude in Connors voice, and he grips the wheel a little tighter.

-

By the time they reach their destination, the rain has slowed from a heavy shower into a soft drizzle. The sound echoing around the small confines of the battered relic of a car. 

The scene of the crime is a tiny, desolate looking building that might once have been called a home. If not for the truly horrifying amount of grime coating its exterior. The road is almost blocked by the sheer number of police cars and news vans. The walkway isn’t faring any better, overflowing with rows and rows of curious reporters and confused neighbours alike. Several of whom are circling like vultures a few feet above the ground, wingbeats almost muted by the commotion below.

Hank takes a moment to wonder at how he let this become his life, before he remembers the cars newest addition. The newest addition who is currently staring blankly ahead, wings silent and unmoving. 

Hank drags a hand down his face, decides it’s not his problem and takes the keys from the ignition.

“You, wait here. I won’t be long,” he mutters, praying to any higher entity listening that the thing will just do as it’s told.

“Whatever you say Lieutenant,” comes the soft reply and Hank... was honestly not expecting it to be that easy. He pauses. Gives Connor a suspicious once over to make sure he heard correctly and squints. 

“Fucking A- Whatever I say,” he says, tone resigned. He reminds himself that it’s definitely not his problem before giving a helpless shrug and promptly getting out of the car. It’s just force of habit that ensures he leaves the music playing on the radio, nothing more. At least, that’s what he tells himself as he trudges towards the officers at the scene. Wings tense and feathers still damp from the rain.

-

Connor watches as his assigned partner leaves. Processors analysing the music that’s been left on in his absence. It’s not customary to leave the radio on when leaving a vehicle and he thinks the Lieutenant should know this. He’s barely begun to dissect the meaning of it when a large flashing error flickers to life at the center of his vision. Emboldened letters an aggravating shade of red.

**Error!  
** **Conflicting Orders.**  
**Selecting Priority.**  
**Disregard Order “Wait here.”**  
**Follow the Lieutenant.**

The warning persists, large and insistant and Connor feels a frown tug at his lips. His relationship with the Lieutenant might suffer for it but he knows that the mission is his highest priority. He clicks the seatbelt off with a resounding snap and climbs out of the car. The error recedes, content with Connors compliance. A gentle gust of wind ruffles his feathers and he draws them instinctively closer to his back as he assesses the surroundings.

Rain ripples across the surface of countless puddles, each illuminated with reflections of camera flashes and flickering, crimson police lights. 

His primary feathers leave a soft blue glow on the surrounding area and he hesitates. The glow could definitely become problematic. Especially with so many reporters around to notice the unusual prototype. He contemplates the possible outcomes before coming to a swift decision.

**Processing Request: Decrease wing LEDS to 5%.  
** **Initialising request.**  
**Request completed.**

Wings now almost as dark as the midnight sky itself, Connor continues on completely unnoticed towards his destination. Easing his way smoothly through the crowds at a leisurely pace. Only to be stopped the moment he reaches the holographic yellow police tape by another Android. Small white feathers soaked to the core from standing so long at it’s post.

“Androids are not permitted past this point,” It states as rain trickles down its expressionless face. Connor is about to respond with his programmed introduction speech when a muffled curse catches his attention.

“It’s with me,” comes Hanks exasperated reply and Connor turns his head to the sound. Eyebrows raised as his system registers a fleeting moment of something that might be disbelief.

**_Sy37em 1nst4b1lity ^_ **

Of all the possible outcomes, this was not how he’d predicted the Lieutenant reacting to his lack of obedience. Nonetheless, the Android in front of him relaxes its stance and steps aside. Leaving Connor to walk confidently towards the detective.

“What part of ‘stay in the car’ didn’t you understand?” Hank says, hostility open in the tense edges of his, now drenched, grey wings. 

_Oh,_ Connor thinks. _There’s the response I was expecting._

“Your order contradicted my instructions, Lieutenant,” he answers instead, and hopes it’ll be enough to placate him. Hank breathes a long-suffering sigh.

“You don’t talk, you don’t touch anything and you stay out of my way. Got it?” he hisses, but it comes out weary and resigned. Defeated, grey feathers drooping ever so slightly against the onslaught of the rain.

“Got it.” Connor chirps back and promptly starts scanning the surrounding area. Hank is abruptly drawn back into a conversation with another detective and Connor processes the words as he walks around.

Piles of trash line the porch of the house and the garden is a dense mass of overgrown weeds. His auditory processor picks up a news reporter discussing the days events and he opts to ignore it. He analyses the multiple possible exit routes from the building and detects at least 8 police officers on the scene.

Content with his observations, he focuses back on the tail-end of conversation between Lieutenant Anderson and his fellow, grey winged officer.

“So- Got yourself an Android huh?” The officer teases, wings shaking a little with stifled laughter and eyes wide with mirth.

“Oh- Very funny. Just tell me what you got for me,” Hank utters, shaking his head and trails after the man, eager to escape the lingering rain.

Connor, assuming it to be the appropriate reaction to the friendly banter, let’s a small smile turn at the corner of his lips and steps into the house. 

His wings twitch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is longer than I anticipated but hey, it's here. I have a lot planned for this fic, I just need to get through the early chapters first. So enjoy!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank is not happy.

The victims name is Carlos Ortiz.

A once reclusive -according to the neighbours - ex convict who had ultimately been left to rot for 3 weeks; and hank finds that, no matter how many times he enters a crime scene, the acrid stench of death is always an unwelcome assault to his senses. Even if it _does_ do a remarkable job of sobering him up.

“Jesus, that smell!” he barks out, hand automatically flying up in an aborted attempt to cover his nose. 

“Yeah, it was worse before we got the windows open…” Detective Wilson calls over his shoulder, already striding up to the barely recognisable corpse. Hank lingers back a few paces, acclimatising to the foul scent before he recovers enough to continue. His friends grey wings are coiled in discomfort and Hank notes, with bitter satisfaction, that he’s not the only one unhappy to be here. 

He leans down to inspect the gruesome scene, adjusts his own feathery appendages so that they don’t connect with the floor, and let’s Wilson's words fade into meaningless background noise. His eyes immediately snap up to the dark, uniform letters above the victims head. A grisly crown of his own blood, boldly declaring ‘I am Alive,’ and Hank recognises it for what it truly is; a desperate bloody battlecry for an unforgiving world. He grimaces.

Carlos had owned an Android. It didn’t take much to connect the dots.

He listens to the debriefing with a practiced ease that only comes from decades of work in the field, but a trickling sensation at his back pulls insistently at his focus. He dutifully asks questions and keeps the conversation steady, even as his inner voice transitions from nagging, to all out _screaming_ at him. He knows what the problem is, and it’s not the repulsive nature of the crime scene -Oh no. He’s seen far too many of those in his time to be bothered by it.

Nope, instead it’s the sickly sensation of _water_ , sliding slowly down his larger primary feathers that grates at his nerves. Every fibre of his being currently screeching at him to just shake the sodden appendages out, and Hank grits his teeth against the urge. 

_Should have brought an umbrella,_ he thinks miserably and then, upon sighting the completely unphased, yet equally drenched Android at his back, adds _Fucking Androids_ to his inner monologue.

“I gotta’ get some air so just make yourself at home. I’ll be outside if you need me,” Detective Wilson calls out when the debrief is finally, _finally_ , over. Hank jolts from his thoughts and he gives the man a hurried grunt of acknowledgment as he clambers back to his feet, waterlogged wings still quivering with displeasure. 

He takes several deep, calming breaths and reminds himself of the need to remain professional in front of so many officers. It takes longer than he’d like, but eventually the walls of stress crippling his motions crumble down into piles of rubble. With the urge successfully suppressed, Hank lets himself slip back into the analytical mindset of a detective, already planning out his next moves. 

_Step 1: Investigate the house.  
Step 2: Babysit the Android-_

Hanks inner monologue grinds to a terror filled halt so fast that he’s sure he has whiplash.

 _THE ANDROID! Shit! He’d forgotten about the Android!_ , and the thought sends him crashing back down to reality with all the force of a bull in a china shop.

Connor has been suspiciously silent for far too long. Misery forgotten, Hank pivots on his heel, Connor’s name already on his lips - and stops dead in his tracks.

Just in time to witness two fingers coated in human blood enter the things mouth. 

“Ah- Jesus! What the hell are you doing?” he yelps, eyes wide and wings flaring back in shocked revulsion. He disregards the fact that he just flicked water all over the crime scene and the disgruntled complaints it earns him, in favour of fixing Connor with a look of sheer horror.

“I’m analysing the blood,” Connor says, gesturing a little at the knife as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I can analyse samples in real time,” he continues and Hank? 

Hank is not nearly drunk enough for this. 

Heart still racing and now in desperate need of some pretty potent brain bleach, he drops his shocked stance. The floorboards creak ominously beneath his feet and he pinches the bridge of his nose. Determined to wipe the images from his brain until-

“-I’m sorry Lieutenant, I should have warned you.” Connor adds, voice suddenly repentant; and when Hank looks up, the kids ridiculous wings appear to have sagged marginally in a mimicry of shame. The sight irks him. He knows it’s nothing more than a simulated response. Knows it’s just a mockery of human emotion... but even so, the fight drains out of him and he deflates like a stressed balloon.

“Okay, well just don’t...put any more evidence in your mouth, you got it?” Hank finishes meekly, uncomfortably aware that he’s almost begging an android to behave.

“Got it.” Connor echoes, sounding far too happy, and he waves the fingers -still coated in blood Hank might add- in a vague finger gun motion as his wings perk back up. The Blue LEDs at the tips suddenly much brighter in the dim light of the room, and several officers start muttering at the strange sight as they pass.

Hank blinks. Why Connor can control the brightness of his already absurd wings, at apparent will no less, is definitely a question for another day.

“Fucking hell, I can’t believe this,” He grinds out and rolls his eyes, the motion soothing to his frayed nerves. He flicks his wings out irritably, and his inner voice settles into smug satisfied silence with the knowledge that the action removed at least some of the offending liquid on them.

Ignoring the thinly veiled glances of disapproval his coworkers are sending his way from the water that's now _everywhere_ , he turns and enters the next room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a lot shorter than I intended but don't fret! The whole chapter ended up being a few thousand words so you'll see the rest of that tomorrow. ;)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Birds of a feather.

“The victim was stabbed...28 times.” Connor supplies, LED flashing from blue to yellow and then back again in quick succession. Lieutenant Anderson turns to him, arms crossed and doing his best impression of a very bored statue.

“Yeah. Killer really had it out for him,” he answers, tangled grey plumage bristling with impatience. Impatience that fades out when his eyes suddenly snap to Connors, shifting from bored to calculating in an instant. The scrutinising gaze effectively pins him in place and his processors scramble at the abrupt change of demeanour, interface flooding with probabilities and solutions to fix-

_To fix what?_

The thought brings his processors to a screeching halt, leaving percentages and diagrams to settle lazily, like flakes of snow on the outskirts of his interface.

Nothing had been broken. The question was illogical, and his reaction equally so. 

He conducts a quick scan of the Lieutenants face, the logical choice to deduce the next course of action but what it reveals however, is…unusual. 

Expectation, Curiosity and, as the silence lengthens...disappointment? A reticent query surfaces unprompted, bright and bold at the centre of his vision. 

**Is the Lieutenant displeased?** It inquires, white cyberlife sans font flickering innocuously.

Connor blinks, but the rogue line of code remains stubbornly in place. _No, and it’s not important to the investigation,_ he counters and forcefully expunges all unnecessary data from his interface. Logging the erroneous query to be analysed further later.

Hank huffs, and the sound swiftly draws Connor back to the present with a soft jolt of clarity. The Lieutenant had clearly been expecting a response, a reaction of some kind, that was all. There was absolutely no other reason for his partner to be displeased.

Despite the completely sound, logical conclusion, Connor is unable to shake away the nagging suspicion that he’s failed a test of some kind as the Lieutenant walks away. 

**S0F7w4R3 1n5ta8ili7y ^**

-

Hank surveys each piece of the, quite frankly, _alarming_ amount of evidence with no more than a casual passing glance. Ingrained routine warring with apathy, as it pulls him from room to room. 

Bloodied, deep brown feathers trail a macabre path from the kitchen into the living room. They flutter serenely, frayed edges chasing cool storm winds from the many open windows. A delicate dance in the aftermath of a desperate, but ultimately fatal, pursuit. Tipped chairs and shattered glass, sharp edges glinting dangerously under the beam of Hanks flashlight, litter the filthy kitchen floor. Each, another jagged puzzle piece to add to the expanding bigger picture.

A dented wooden baseball bat, laying discarded among the debris, catches Hanks eye and he notes with a scowl, the suspicious lack of blood staining the point of impact. Either the bat had been cleaned, and that was highly unlikely given the fine layer of dust on it, or… the thing being hit didn’t bleed red.

Damp feathers bristling slightly, he marches back to the living room, glass crunching under his heavy boots as he goes.

He’s barely walked three paces when a glimpse of red, glittering sweetly under the beam of a passing light, knocks the wind clean from his lungs. He balks, pulse pounding. Wings frozen. 

_Red Ice. Of course it’s fucking red ice._

Hanks breathing falters. A fine tremor works its way through the taut muscles of his wings and- _Nope,_ nope. He’s not dealing with this right now. He flings it firmly into a box in his mind labelled _‘Fuck that’_ and wills his traitorous shaking legs to move. 

_Out of sight, out of mind._

He lets the words loop, a comforting rhythm that he taps against his thigh.

_Out of sight, out of mind._

His breathing eases, anxiety releasing it’s vice grip from his throat until his pulse resembles something vaguely human again. His wings still tremor, but its mild enough that Hank viciously pretends it’s not happening at all. Mind, for the most part soothed, he pushes on to the next piece of evidence. 

And if he looks the slightest bit rattled? Well, that’s nobody's business but his own.

-

15 minutes.

They’ve been at the scene for 15, agonisingly slow minutes. 

Long enough for Hank’s wings to have stopped leaving a trail of water in his wake. Long enough for the sound of noisy reporters and the battering rain outside, to induce a pounding headache. Long enough for him to surmise, bitterly, that he hates his life. 

Hank had long since taken refuge leaning against the least likely to crumble wall. Silver wings drooping as he lets the mindless chatter of his fellow officers distract him from the pain, currently lancing it's way through his skull.

When Connor finally resurfaces from whatever the fuck he was doing, looking to all the world like a bloodhound tracking a scent, Hank straightens up with a grimace. 

_This outta be good,_ he thinks, flexing the stiff muscles of a still slightly trembling wing.

“Lieutenant, I think I’ve figured out what happened,” Connor says, brown eyes fierce with determination. And as surprising as that is, Hank’s been over the evidence too. Already has an outline of likely scenarios and is more than ready to just go home. He’s about to say as much, when something in Connor's face stops him.

“Oh yeah?” He asks, and then shrugs because really, it’s not like he has anything to lose at this point. Might as well let his dignity go down with the ship too. “Shoot. I’m all ears.” 

Connor’s wings perk up the tiniest bit, and _fuck_ , he looks far too much like an eager puppy.

“It all started…” and he pauses, squinting in apparent deliberation before seemingly coming to a conclusion. “In the kitchen.”

That snags Hanks attention and he squints, giving the thing a brief, inquisitive once over. It matches his own deductions and so, seeing no reason not to, he heaves himself up from the wall, bones cracking as he does, and follows the android into the aforementioned room.

“There are obvious signs of a struggle. Question is, what exactly happened here?” Hank tests, tentatively casting a metaphorical hook out, eyebrows raised in wordless challenge. 

_If he’s going to be stuck with the bastard, it may as well prove itself,_ he reasons. 

“I think the victim attacked the android with a bat,” Connor continues, LED never leaving it’s steady neon blue, and whether he knows it or not, he’s just accepted the challenge. 

“That lines up with the evidence, go on,” Hank ushers, hands curling in a ‘keep going’ motion that his feathered appendages subconsciously follow. 

“The android stabbed the victim,” Connor adds, pointing out the discarded knife and tattered, blood stained feathers on the ground. Hank feels a scoff itch at the back of his throat, _no shit Sherlock_ , but wrestles it back down, the detective in him demanding that he humour the thing a little.

“So, the Android was trying to defend itself right? Okay, _then_ what happened?” He continues, gently nudging the proverbial stream of thought back on track. Okay, so maybe he’s digging a little. What of it?

“The victim fled...to the living room,” Connor adds, brow creasing in concentration. His wings are inhumanly still as he makes his way back to the corpse, and he gestures offhandedly at the trail of blood staining the floorboards as he goes. 

“He tried to get away from it. All right, that makes sense,” Hank mutters, adjusting his stance and carefully keeping his voice neutral. He knows all of this, already put the pieces together. It’s his job for Christs sake, and he hasn’t been fired. _Yet_. Even so, there’s something intriguing about watching a piece of sentient plastic draw the same conclusions.

“The android murdered the victim with the knife.” Connor finishes, eyes flicking back to Hanks in a way that’s eerily reminiscent of a child seeking approval. Hanks breathing sticks in his throat for a moment, and he clears it. 

“Okay, I’ll bite, your theory’s not totally ridiculous,” the compliment escaping before he has a chance to question it and his wings twitch at the verbal slip.“But it doesn’t tell us where the android went,” he tacks on quickly.

 _Let’s see if it can answer that one eh?_ his inner voice quips, while outwardly he casts an indifferent glance at the surrounding officers. Truthfully, Hank hasn’t figured that one out either. So if the brown-eyed plastic peacock can answer it for him, he’ll suck it up and count his losses.

“It was damaged by the bat and lost some thirium,” Connor says mildly, and a stray strand of hair flops over his face when he tilts his head.

“Lost some what?” Hank shoots back, and okay it’s not a location, but it’s definitely something. Which is certainly more than he had a few minutes ago.

“Thirium. You may know it as blue blood, it’s the fluid that powers Androids biocomponents. it evaporates after a few hours and becomes invisible to the naked eye.” Connor explains, sounding remarkably confident for a being with no emotions. Something about his expression just daring Hank to ask the obvious. 

_Fine, you smug little shit,_ he grumbles, firmly tossing his pride aside for the sake of progress. _I’ll bite._

“But I bet _you_ can still see it, can’t you?” He chances, hating that he has to ask at all.

“Correct.” Connor finishes triumphantly, and if Hank had any doubts that an Android could look smug, he certainly doesn’t now. It’s wings are practically preening, dark feathers puffing up with pride, expression quirked in a barely there smile. 

The display is unnervingly human, and Hank rolls his eyes, regretting it the moment a spear of pain tears through his head. Right, headache. He gives Connor a perfunctory nod, reminds himself that it’s not necessary to praise plastic and ambles away towards the door. 

Despite evidence to the contrary, Hank knows when to concede defeat, and currently there’s a tally sitting pretty in the Connor column.

“Oh, and Lieutenant?” the Android calls, voice laced with simulated curiosity. “I found this.” 

Hank heaves another sigh. Certain that whatever it is, Connor is definitely capable of handling it alone, he turns - and feels his wings stiffen in shock. 

There, sitting innocently in Connors outstretched palm and glinting against the dim light; rests a single, mangled, thirium-stained feather.

It’s black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M ALIVE!!! After losing the first version of this chapter due to siblings, I lost my will to work on this. But, after a healthy does of wonderful comments and my own stubbornness, it's back. Hope you enjoyed it! ^.^


End file.
